August 2007

08/27/2007

08/06/2007

It was a miserable, cloudy, day on the small Greek island of Poros. Not the sort of day to go to the beach. My sister washed her undies out in the hotel sink, hung them on the balcony rail and suggested we go for lunch at Limonodassis. I got dressed and followed her in a hungover daze while we walked into town, caught a water taxi to the mainland and headed up into the Lemon Mountains. At Taverna Kadasi we had a horrid meal, as usual, and socialised with the Ancient Greeks. A perfect day so far.

Returning to the hotel it started to rain. No major problem as the summer rain in Greece is large and warm. Still, we took shelter in Taverna Zorba where we sat with Mike the Englishman who bored us rigid within two minutes. Mike is a positive well of pointless anecdotes and laughs at them heartily. Luckily Christos the gravedigger came to join us. Christos is lots of fun and knew my mother when she used to come to the island with us. She doesn't come anymore as she's late.

Sitting with Mike and Christos is the last thing I remember before arriving home. According to an eye witness account (my sister) we went into town, had dinner at Taverna Kathestos, went for ouzo at Zacharia's and ended up dancing after hours at The Sailors bar with lots of Greek people. Diane tells me that we played on the swings and roundabouts in the children's playground on the way home. I remember none of this. I suspect I may have had a bad bottle of wine. There's one in every crate.

Upon reaching the hotel I searched in my bag for the room key but it was not there! Oche problema! I would climb to the balcony and get in through the kitchen window, opening the door from the inside. Easy peasy. Up I went, reached the balcony, hands on the rail, swung my leg over and suddenly encountered an unexpected obstacle; my sister's knickers! In what felt like slow motion my hands slid away from the rail and I fell to my doom.

Looking back I realise I could have been killed. Luckily my fall was broken by the balcony rail on the floor below which I hit face first with my left arm beneath me. As I bounced off the rail I thought, "My arm's broken", and then I hit the tree. Bouncing off the tree I thought, "Oh fuck", and then I hit the ground.

Sitting on the front step of the hotel, cradling my arm and whimpering, waiting for the ambulance, was when Diane said cheerily, "Look, the keys were in your bag all the time". I still suspect she had them all the time and planted them in my bag after the fact.

The ambulance took me to the Naval Base first aid station where they couldn't do anything because they're useless and frightened of anything more serious than a shaving cut. I was sent on the ferry to a cottage hospital on the mainland. Here they splinted the arm and gave me a pain killing shot. And then I was sent back to the hotel with instructions to go to a proper hospital in Piraeus in the morning.

In the morning I woke with an urge to visit the toilet. Getting to my feet I fainted from the pain, fell to the marble floor and got wedged between the beds. Eventually I got to my feet and made it to the loo. I had a wee sitting down as I thought I was in no state to be lifting heavy weights. Getting to my feet I was overwhelmed by the pain and crashed to the marble floor again. Of course I was getting used to it by now.

So: taxi into town, hydrofoil to Piraeus, taxi to the hospital. Where they told us we were at the wrong place and had to go to Athens.

So: taxi to Athens. Still no major problem except when the driver took a right turn after revving his engine at lights for ten minutes. As the car went right at 100 mph my elbow went left and I screamed. Very, very, loudly. In a split second the taxi reduced it's speed to 3 mph and the driver apologetically asked if I was alright. I moaned that I was ok but asked him to be a tad more careful.

At the hospital in Glyfada I had to fill in lots of forms before being seen by a doctor who told me, with a fag hanging out of his mouth, that I mustn't smoke, eat or drink until after the operation.

Now, up to this point I'd been thinking that they'd set my arm, plaster it and send me back to the island. I broke my arm (same one) when I was ten and I knew the drill. I started to get the idea that this could be a smidgen more serious.

A gorgeous nurse, whose previous experience had obviously been at Auschwitz, twisted my arm onto an x-ray machine, ignored my screams and constantly asked me to straighten the arm so they could get a good picture. What a cow!

My ulna and radius were smashed clean through and my wrist was broken. Shit!

Then they put me in a nice little ward and Diane went back to the island to get our things. I phoned my girlfriend in England and asked her if she'd still love me if I only had one arm. She asked what was wrong with my arms and we reminisced about the good old days when I had two.

Going up to the operating theatre the orderlies managed to hit every door we went through and every wall we passed. I was getting very pissed off with all the screaming. I bit my lip manfully and tried not to cry.

The surgeon carefully explained what he was going to do and I asked him, tearfully, if I would be able to play the piano when my arm was fixed. He fixed me with a steely glare and said, "Only if you could play it already". Damn! He'd trained in England and knew the punch line.

Next thing I knew I was being lowered into my bed back in the ward. Diane had left me lots of soft drinks on the bedside table for after the op so I reached out and grabbed one. Boy, was I dehydrated. The orderly tried to take the drink for me explaining I couldn't have one until later after I'd slept. I remember quite clearly how I screamed, sobbed and fought them so I could have a drink. It took six of them to hold me down and inject me. I slept like a drugged person.

When I finally woke up I drank loads. And then had to pee into an empty lemonade bottle (kindly provided by an old lady whose son was in the same room) because I couldn't get the attention of a nurse.

After rehydrating and relieving myself my next though was for one of life's other main necessities. Moving carefully I took the saline drip from it's hanger on the wall and picked up the blood drain bag from the floor. I hung these on one of those wheely stands you see on hospital soaps and made my way outside for a fag.

Returning to my bed I met another Auschwitz nurse who barked "Kravati!", at me. This was not a Greek word I knew. I looked at her dumbly and she shouted it at me again. This was fun. I stood there looking like a village idiot while she kept shouting, "Kravati!" and going very red in the face. Someone walking past gave me a nudge and said, "It means get into bed mate". I returned to bed and very soon a doctor came and removed the drip and the drain. I was free! First stop the nearest bar where I had a gyros and a bottle of bud. Then back to the ward where Diane was waiting with clean clothes and I was moved to a general ward.

The general ward was a single storey concrete bunker, roughly 4 foot by ten. With twenty beds in it. When the guy in the next bed (two broken arms and a broken leg) used the bedpan I could have reached out and wiped his arse for hi. Obviously I didn't. That wouldn't have been nice.

Nurses in Greece only do medical things; feeding, washing and bedpan duties are done by family members. Diane said that if I'd broken both arms she would have abandoned me.

The food was inedible. Packs of feral dogs roamed the hospital grounds. Everybody in the room had a radio or TV and they were all tuned to different channels; Add in the six or so relatives for every patient (who stayed 24/7) and the atmosphere was not conducive to rehabilitation or recuperation. But all the old grannies who were looking after their relatives adopted me and gave me sweeties. I had to stay there for a week before I could fly back to England. Anyone who ever criticises the British NHS should try a week in a Greek hospital.